Finally, he could no longer cower in hiding while his flock suffered untold atrocities. He must do something, at the very least, see to the laird’s daughter. Cautiously, he crept from his hiding place and knelt behind the altar. Heart pounding with dread for what he might find, he slid back the wooden panel and peered into the hidden space. In the dark shadows, two great eyes, once brilliantly green as the moss along a creek bank, stared back, unblinking and fathomless.
“Child, are ye all right?” he whispered. “Have ye been cut by the blade?”
Mutely, she gazed at him, and since she showed no sign of pain or distress other than mental, he made no attempt to examine her. Her ragged wheat-gold hair had fallen loose from its braid and spilled across her face and shoulder. She lay on her side, her head resting on her bent arm. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and he divined she had fallen into a stupor born of terror. Only the dull eyes gazing back at him blankly showed she was alive. Observing the death of her father had traumatized her, he thought and clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“Sleep, child,” he whispered. “Close your eyes and rest while you can. You’re safe for a while.”
She made no sound, gave no indication that she’d heard him save to lower her lids. Whether she slept or not, he could not tell. He sighed and lay down on the floor behind the altar. The cold stone hurt his aching joints, but he made no move to shift and ease his pain. Somehow, he blamed himself for all that had befallen the laird and his child. He had failed them, and he must do penance. He took the child’s small, chubby hand in his and lay staring at the chapel dome with its painted frescos.
He thought of the monastery, St. Peter and Paul, where he’d served his youth before going out into the world to preach the Holy Word. Of late, he’d thought often of returning there to finish his last days in a sun-dappled peaceful retreat where the only requirement made of him was that he worship and serve his brothers. He lingered on his memories of those tranquil walls and the hushed serenity within them. Oh, to be there now. He sighed. How his soul longed for such an ending, but he accepted his lot for was it not God-given?
He must serve the girl. See to her safety. He owed the laird that much. He thought of Ewan MacDougall lying dead in this very room, without benefit of the Last Rites. He must see to a proper burial for the laird and the return of his head.
Exhaustion claimed him and, knowing there was little safety for them beyond this tiny chapel, he settled behind the altar and dozed, finding comfort in the remembered sounds of laughter, the rich smells of the fire in the great castle hall and the generously laden table where a tired and hungry priest was always welcomed. He remembered his friendship with the laird and the shared confidences of castle business over cups of wine. That world was gone forever. Beyond the chapel door was chaos and ruin, death and destruction, and fear of an unknown world. At least, for now, there was some safety. Having already ransacked the chapel and with a dead man lying guard, no one was likely to enter again.
When he woke and checked the girl, he found her awake, her eyes blank, her face pale. He’d never particularly liked this girl because he didn’t much like children. She’d been too inquisitive, bolder than was proper for a girl, and that had been the laird’s fault. He’d indulged and petted her beyond the norm. But now the priest felt a tremor of pity for her, though he made no effort to express it.
“Come, we must go from here,” he said. “’Tis a place of death now.”
He took hold of her arm and half-dragged her from beneath the altar. At first she resisted, her eyes going dark with terror, but he tugged harder and she slid out onto the stone floor.
“Get up, now,” he ordered. “We must do something to save ourselves.”
The girl stood. Her clothes were dusty from her hiding place, and he could see ragged tears where the Campbell blade had slashed her skirts, so closely had death stalked her. Her brilliant hair was dirty and unkempt, its long unruly strands hiding her face. Just as well, the priest thought. He took her arm, and she followed docilely as he moved out of the chapel and into the bailey. Bodies littered the courtyard. Stables and sheds had been torn apart for their wood, to feed the bonfires. Slaughtered stock and game lay bloating in the mud. The priest stopped often to close the eyes of the dead and say a final prayer. Then he came to the body of a peasant girl who had tended the geese and herded the lambs. He lingered while his mind sought a safe answer for the laird’s daughter and himself.
“Look here,” he instructed the girl, taking her face in his hands, so she was forced to gaze on the dead girl.
She cried out a guttural denial and looked away.
“Look,” the old priest whispered, shaking her slightly.
She stared at him, but her eyes were unfocused, and he wasn’t sure she actually saw the dead girl. Still, he had to try. Her life depended on her understanding and complying.
“This girl tended the geese and the lambs in the spring,” he said urgently. “Her name was Annie, like yours. You’ll become Annie, the goose girl, until we find a way to get you to safety. D’you understand what I’m telling you, girl?”
She made no answer.
Only later, when they’d found lodging in the stables, did the good father understand the girl had gone mute. ‘Tis just as well, he thought, and crept back to the chapel to tend his dead laird. He must find some kinsmen for the girl, he thought, but where to begin? Robert the Bruce had disbanded the clan. Their history was scattered. The MacDougall clan was no more.
Chapter One
The woods were deep and silent with the promise of danger. Rafe Campbell signaled his men to halt and sat listening, head cocked. A sudden wind soughed through the pines nearly hiding the unnatural silence. Leather creaked as Gare Campbell edged his mount closer. Both men bore the mark of the Campbell clan in their coloring and dark piercing gazes, but Gare sported a beard while Rafe’s strong jaw was smooth from daily shaving.
“Not a sound, cousin.” Gare’s voice was low, and his glance darted along the path apprehensively.
“Aye, and that’s what’s troubling.” Rafe’s sharp gaze swept across the forest floor, sorting the shifting shadows. “Where are the birds and squirrels playing in the trees? Something has sent them to ground.” He held up a hand to steady his men and tightened his knee grip on Bhaltair. The steed tossed its head but otherwise remained still.
The silence was a living, breathing thing then the sound came again—the rattle of a pebble against stone, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot.
“There’re creatures out there, but not the kind we need.”
“Aye,” Rafe ordered without raising his voice. “Ready the men for attack.”
The word was passed back among his riders. He drew his claymore and nudged Bhaltair forward with his booted heels. Gare fell in behind him. The gloom of the forest was cut by shafts of light that pierced the overhead foliage and hung like shimmering curtains along the path. The pale illumination was both a comfort and a curse for the shadows moved, startling both horse and man and playing tricks on the eye.
The men were tense. They’d heard tales of the woods of Oban. Ghosts and apparitions traveled here. Rafe guessed that although they were battle-seasoned men, they had no wish to engage some nebulous being from another world.
They moved forward about a hundred feet when a battle cry was raised, high and wild, curdling Rafe’s blood. Though the call was inhuman, the painted, half-clad figures that fell from branches and leaped from behind rocks were human enough. Rafe spurred Bhaltair forward, swinging his great claymore in a wide arch that cut down the man before him. His men seemed to take heart at this proof that their attackers were mere mortals after all and not to be feared. They fought with skill and courage as they always did, but so did their attackers.
Rafe noticed one man in particular seemed to bear a certain mark of leadership despite his slight stature and ragged tartan. A cap covered his head, and he was clean-shaven, though his face was smeared with dirt and blood.
He wielded a slender blade instead of the heavier claymore most men used, but seemed to be at no disadvantage for his arm was quick and sure. His thin blade slid easily between the ribs of first one Campbell soldier then another.
Rafe wheeled Bhaltair, intent on striking down the leader, but another renegade leaped between them, barely missing Rafe’s head with a swing of his claymore. Rafe swung his own weapon and saw shock ripple across the man’s face as his severed arm fell to the forest floor. Immediately, the renegade leader was there, his slender blade pressing against Rafe’s shoulder, his eyes hard and black with rage. Nor did he blink as he held Rafe’s gaze until other renegades came to lead their wounded man away. Only then did the rebel leader remove the blade point and slip away into the trees. Surprised, Rafe stared after him. Why hadn’t the man taken advantage and drawn his blade across Rafe’s neck? A high yodeling call rang out, and the renegades withdrew, taking their wounded and dead with them as they disappeared into the forest’s shadows as quickly as they’d come.
“Stay, don’t give chase,” Rafe ordered his men, mindful that the withdrawal could be a ruse to draw them deeper into the woods where additional forces could be waiting. “How many wounded and dead?”
“We’ve three dead and five badly wounded.” Gare stood on the path staring up at Rafe. “If we don’t tend them properly, they’ll die before we reach your uncle’s castle.”
“We have no choice. We have to move on. We’re open to another attack if we’re caught here in the wood after nightfall.”
“Aye.” Gare nodded as if he’d known all along that must be the way of things.
“Come, we ride to the castle,” Rafe called to his men. “We’ll be safe there tonight.”
The wounded men were helped into their saddles, and the dead draped across horseback. They moved more quickly now, not wishing to see darkness fall over them in the woods.
When they broke free of the dense trees, they found themselves moving through poorly planted fields as they passed cottages in disrepair. Ragged children halted their labors to stare at the horsemen as they rode by. The village was little better. Thatched roofs sagged over stone walls, and weeds grew where once garden patches had prospered. There was little evidence of livestock and the villagers they did see stared at them with dull, uncaring eyes and moved listlessly from the village well back to their hovels.
“God’s blood.” Rafe cast a glance around the poor village. “Is this evidence of the MacDougall land wealth I’ve heard so much about? My uncle got a poor bargain in the King’s bequeath. These peasants seem to have no inclination to work. They’ll surely starve in the winter.”
“Aye, and the better for it, if they’ve no heart to work for what they need.” Gare’s disdain was unshielded.
“Still, the peasantry need the direction of the Laird,” Rafe said. “Though ‘tis true my uncle is a warrior by nature, I would think him capable of managing his holdings better.”
“Mayhap the unrest in the land has crippled his attempts.” Gare had always held Archibald Campbell in high esteem and couldn’t countenance a word against him.
“Aye, mayhap.” Rafe made allowances for his friend’s loyalty. “The message said there had been some trouble.”
“Look, there’s Dunollie now.” Gare stood up in his stirrups to get a better view. “Aye, it’s a bonny castle. Now I understand the source of MacDougall pride. Sir Archibald has done well for himself.”
Rafe said nothing, but his gaze took in the lines of the fabled stronghold. Though not of the grand size of some fortress castles, Dunollie’s high stone walls and steep, lichen-covered roof were further enhanced by conical topped turrets and round towers that rose free of the corbelling often affected by some castles. Black and brown jumbled stones had been used in its building adding strength and character.
One day, if he came to own a castle, he’d wish for one such as this. He put away the thought. He was a warrior, a mercenary. Home and hearth were not for the likes of him. Such musings were born from a temporary need all men have to sit before a fire with a full belly, a tankard of wine and a willing wench to bed. He nudged his heel against Bhaltair’s side and waved his men forward.
No one came to greet them as they approached. Only two men guarded the outer gate, and they made a faint-hearted demand that Rafe identify himself before waving him and his men across the bridge and into the courtyard. Even here there were no signs of concern that outsiders had ridden into their midst. No stable hands came to take their horses. No one inquired about their business.
Gare exchanged glances with Rafe, signaling his unspoken criticism. Rafe studied the castle windows for any sign of recognition of their arrival.
“Stay ready,” he told his men and motioned to Gare to follow. Dismounting, Rafe led the way to the small double doors set in the northwest wall. Inside, a low dark tunnel led to a set of steps.
Puzzled that even here he wasn’t challenged, Rafe climbed upward to a landing that opened into a spacious hall that would have been light and pleasant save the windows were shuttered and a foul stench of rotting food rose from the rush-covered floor. The hall had been furnished with long, trestle tables while benches with wooden armchairs had been placed before a stone fireplace where a fire roared in a wanton inefficiency of flames.
Three uniformed men and a woman were seated at one of the tables, loudly disputing the outcome of a game of dice. Only the woman glanced up when Rafe and Gare entered. Two large mastiffs lay near the hearth growling and gnawing on bones long since chewed clean of any morsel. A man occupied an armchair, his foot propped on a stool, a patch covering one eye. Nearby, a small table held a goblet and a half-empty flagon of wine.
The dogs noticed their presence first and leaped to their feet, baying a welcome or warning, though Rafe wasn’t sure which.
“Beagan, Cronan! Come,” the man called and peered, with his one good eye, through the dark shadows at his visitors. He made no move to rise and greet them. Indeed, he seemed not to recognize them.